Throes Of Oblivion
by Svetlana Morealt
Summary: AU. Chris is too haunted by the past to stay with the B.S.A.A. despite knowing it's what Piers wanted. He surrounds himself in solitude, where visions plague his aching soul. A face from the past emerges, and it's far more cruel than guilt. Focus on WxC, with slight Nivanfield.
1. This Guilt We Cling To

**A/N: Just a short prelude for things to come~ Future chapters will undoubtedly be longer. P:**

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Silence.

Cold, bittersweet, ear shattering silence. It had almost been all that ever greeted Chris, anymore. It was only after the weeks that grew into months of constant check-ins from people who cared, who thought they could help, that he'd abandoned everything. The silence, as painful as it was, had been more preferable to pity. It didn't coddle him or lie and promise him that everything would get better; that it would all be okay when he knew it never could be. Nothing could make it right, nothing could ever settle the ache in his nerves.

It hadn't taken long for it all to become too much. He just couldn't handle the sad smiles or the glittering tears as hands patted away at his back, or when arms were woven around him in an attempted means of comfort. _Pity, pity, pity,_ he hated it so. The pain in their eyes that reflected back at him, no where near the weight of his own as it bore holes in his body, splintering his heart with a dozen nails and weakening his muscles into the useless mush he wanted to become as he stopped everything. Just... _Stopped_.

No more fighting, no more wars. No more blood on his hands.

There were times when Chris could swear he saw it, the figurative red over his palms as he buried his face in them, willing his tears to wash it all away. Whenever salty rivulets ran dry, he would sit on the shower floor with the water spraying from above and watch as the red flowed from his skin into a swirl as it was carried down the drain. Yet still, his hands were stained.

_Red, red, red._

It wasn't actually there - he wasn't crazy enough yet to think it was - but it felt like it, more often than not. His hands were dirty and never to be cleaned. No matter how hard he scrubbed at them, they were tainted by the guilt he clung so hard to.

If he could, he'd have stopped breathing a long time ago. There weren't exactly all that many people left who would actually miss him. Most had already gone long, long before him. Such was his curse, to survive everywhere that others did not. To be forced to push forward when all that he knew crumbled around him into ash and debris. Where all that he had left of old friends were memories and dreams, so vivid in his mind yet so far from his reach. It was always a reoccurring question - _why them, why not me?_ Why did so many expect him to fight, when he was losing all reason to the more the years went by? Why did everything, the weight of the world, the people in it - fall on his shoulders while everyone else was damned to die around him?

His world had collapsed long ago. Chris had already fought for so long, his body was worn and tired, his soul aching and will dying. Regret was a common feeling, bringing forth faces of the past that haunted him on a daily basis. The smiles had faded away into dying shrieks, screams as men fell and became corrupted, converted into monstrosities that mankind had the nerve to create as tools to use against one another. No man should have seen what he had in all his years, and it was nigh impossible to walk away from it unscathed.

Now, Chris sat in the darkness of a cheap ass hotel with stained carpets and moldy walls, where the pipes screamed in protest upon every use and leaked buckets down to the floor. At times, he could hear the creaking from the people in the room above each time they took even the slightest step, yet for the moment there was the same uncomfortably thick layer of silence he'd been sitting in for the last three hours that only served to hack away at the few remaining strings of his sanity. He could feel them at the brink, prepared to give way and he almost wanted it.

His eyes fluttered, he felt tired; always so damn tired. But sleep was a hard thing to come by - it often took days just to taste it, when the exhaustion was too much and his body finally allowed him to give in. Pills stopped working long ago, and it was too tempting to reach the bottom of the bottle that they had become a danger to keep around. He considered it, a few times. But he was so sure he deserved the suffering more than the release.

"Surrender hardly suits you."

Chris would have jumped up at the voice under normal circumstances, when he could will his nerves into twitching, his muscles into moving. Instead his eyes blinked open, where brown oculars settled onto the source of the sound. Obscured by the darkness of the room, the little Chris could make out was a silhouette - shaped only from the small glimmer of moonlight streaming in through the half-open blinds. Chris didn't need to see him clearly to know who he was, to know it was his back that mahogany eyes were addressing in the curtain of shadows they shared.

"You remain here, drowning in your own self pity, while others die at the hands of bioterrorism. Had you shown such lack of concern in prior years, Uroboros would have relieved the world of such human weakness." He turned then, the glare of the moon bouncing off those familiar sunglasses. "That self righteous fire of yours is dwindling. It's only a matter of time before it diminishes entirely."

The most Chris cared to muster was a soft snort, "Then you'll be happy to know that if you're here to take what you want, you won't get much of a fight." Questions that would have plagued him in his right mind did not rise to the surface. No wonders of how the man could possibly be there in the flesh, living, breathing just as Chris had remembered. No curiosity about what happened in that god forsaken volcano all those years ago, after he'd left. There should have been more thoughts spurring into motion, making themselves well known in his mind, but instead there were none. Not a one.

"Now, now, Christopher... Simplicity has hardly ever been in your grasp." The blond turned back toward the window, small streaks of white revealing the curvature of a smirk formed into play. "No... You won't receive so much as a touch from my fingertips until you're teetering at the precipice." There was movement, given away only by the moonlight as Wesker settled into a chair toward the side of the window, now where Chris could hardly see. That was, until two ominous suns flared to life from behind tinted shades, beacons of further light in the overwhelming darkness Chris had found himself trapped within.

"I will make no advances until your mind dissolves so far, you come to me of your own volition and beg to be torn asunder."

Chris swallowed at the thought, still enough in his right mind to feel a chill quake down the length of his spine. "Not you." His voice was quieter now, hardly a whisper of what it had been, what it should be, now bordering on the edge of hearing. "I'll never turn to you." He tried to find strength in the sound, to appear as more than a hopeless soul dwindling at the edge of nothingness, wanting so badly to fall in, but too fearful to do so. Yet he would much rather find solace in the bottomless pit of that abyss, than to be swept away in the arms of the devil who sat mere feet from his bedside.

Wesker didn't reply with words. Instead, Chris watched as those glowing suns moved ever closer where the blond had leaned forward. For a moment, the light had found his pale skin, reignited the glow and unveiled that smug tilt to his mouth which had not wavered.

It was the final sight Chris had before exhaustion consumed him, and brown eyes took a small mercy in the black nothingness hidden behind their lids as his mind followed into oblivion, faintly aware of the soft chuckle that emanated from his side.


	2. Hypnotic Hands

**A/N: Holy shitballs. So, somehow I managed to turn this from angst, to fluff, to angst again, to PORN, to angst, to MORE porn, to more ANGST, and... Well. This kinda went in a direction I didn't expect. :I Cue a LOT of flashbacks! All of this is your FAULT, CHRIS! (Thanks for the feedback, guys!)**

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It was such a horrid thing, to have the comfort of oblivion ripped out from underneath oneself, where all the truths and pains of the universe come clashing in as reality settles back into the life it always has been. Bitter, abandoning.

Chris lacked the will to reopen his eyes, to face the hell that his reality had come to be. He wanted to retract into his own personal hole in the world, where he could be safe and happy and not have to worry about all the deaths he's caused and lives he's ruined. But choice was not always an option, especially when his body did not hold the same desire.

He almost wondered if the night before had been a dream that plagued him. But it had been too real, too painful, and the sense of dread he'd felt couldn't have come from a nightmare alone. It meant that he had another monster to face - this one of flesh and blood and other things he didn't understand, while the others had been tormenting memories that kept him awake for days on end.

His men, dead. Piers, dead.

_Piers..._

That had left the deepest wound, one that ached and throbbed as freshly as the day it was made. No amount of stitching could ever mend it, not even rope it into a scar. He's lived with scars before. But that cut just won't stop _bleeding_.

Resigned to his fate, Chris sighed and sat up, groggy with brown eyes blinking.

"Pleasant dreams, Christopher?"

The retired Captain frowned at the voice, offering the blond little more than a shake of his head as he stumbled out of bed. "Go away," He mumbled, the words holding no real force behind them as he staggered into the bathroom without even making an attempt to look toward the older male. He settled for going straight to the sink, fingers twisting at the handles to allow a rush of water to spill from the pipes. He cupped his palms under the stream to splash away the images haunting him, wishing that the world he was in now had been the real dream.

"One can only wish it were so easy."

It was then that the brunet did straighten himself to glare at the tyrant's reflection in the mirror, lacking the fire to do any more than that. He dried himself with a towel and made his way to the kitchenette with a demon on his heels, whispering of darkness and alluring evils that threatened to drag him under. The ex-Captain had no patience for it as he stormed over to the fridge with a hand outstretched, fingers frozen inches away from the handle.

He wasn't even hungry, food had long ago lost its taste. He'd eaten much less than he used to prior to... To everything he wanted to forget.

_Thick fingers curled around the fridge door to tug it open with the intention of raiding its contents and filling up the ever-hungry growling stomach of the grizzly bear Captain. A smaller hand met it at the wrist, causing the outstretched limb to retract back to its owner's side._

_Chris frowned and eyed the ace accusingly, "Stopping a man from eating is a crime against humanity, you know." The younger male stepped between himself and the way to a full stomach, leaving the older man little choice but to take a step back with one arm folded over the other. "Such travesty from a B.S.A.A. Operative." Chris settled himself into a lean against the counter behind him._

_The sniper followed in his steps, crowding in on the older man with only a few short movements. "Just stopping you from downing all the contents of the fridge - including anything made of plastic or foil that really doesn't belong in your stomach."_

_"...I think there was a jab at my eating habits somewhere inside there."_

_Normally pouted lips took a rare upturn, something only Chris seemed to have the luxury of being greeted with. "Somewhere," Came the teasing reply._

_"Well," Chris started as brown eyes flickered downward toward the sight of curved plump rows, "I have to eat eventually, you know."_

_"Then I'll make something," Piers insisted instead, dipping forward so pearly whites could tug gently at his lover's lower lip. "Guaranteed to fill you right up."_

_Dark eyebrows shot up curiously, and the older man's mouth curved at its corners. "Was that an innuendo, Nivans?"_

_Piers edged closer, both hands falling to a rest on either side of Chris, resting over top the counter behind him as the lean figure pressed itself air tight to broad musculature. Chris inhaled sharply with the ghost of a breath that whispered to his ear, "It is, now."_

"Remembering something?" The query from behind snapped the brunet back into the moment. Chris retracted his hand with a tightened jaw, his fingers flexing into a fist as his arm dropped back to his side. He was being tormented - his soul had become tainted, _haunted_ by ghosts unwilling to let him rest.

Without a word, the ex-Captain turned on his heel and brushed by the blond who eyed him all too familiarly like a predator sizing up their prey at the very precipice of striking, and out toward the living room where he collapsed on the sofa. Brown eyes stared ahead into the vast nothingness that had become his life as light, nearly inaudible footsteps followed behind, making their way closer. A weight settled itself onto the cushion to his right, and Chris closed his lids, desiring nothing more than to will away the image of memories long past.

A familiar scent flared through his nostrils from the blond - all that he was, all that Chris remembered him ever to be, blended together and hit home hard. It was a piece of his life that had been stripped away more than a decade ago, a recollection of times much less darker than those of the now. Before he'd ever become aware of anything involving hordes of mindless infected, before he'd lost his S.T.A.R.S. comrades in that nightmare of a mansion.

Chris had focused more on his anger, up until and beyond the events of Kijuju. He hadn't stopped to fully _think_, to let himself remember everything he wished he could forget. But now that the anger was gone, now that he had nothing but his own sorrow to drown himself in, the past would not remain silent.

The ex-Captain shifted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling much too cramped between the armrest and the black-clad tyrant at his side. He swallowed hard and stilled his breathing, gathering himself as his eyes reopened to stare at the wall on the other side of the room. At the corner of his view, he could still see the blond - though he had no full focus on the man, his knowledge of him was enough to confirm that air of smugness Wesker did so enjoy carting around with him.

Chris wanted to be angry. Wanted scream and cry and cast blame on the other man, accuse him of the downward spiral his life had been on for fifteen years. He wanted to hit and throttle and _fight_ the older man, for justice, for revenge - for _himself_, to make things better.

But the chances of them ever improving after such a long, hard fall, were so limited. So close to impossible.

Chris was tired. Tired of fighting; of war and bioterrorism. He was tired of _breathing_.

The silence only made things worse. It made it easier to remember. What they once were, so long ago. A past he desperately needed to be the truth and not the clever lie it was made out to be.

_Chris had found himself there a dozen times over. Lifted up and on top of a desk normally organized, now a mess with its contents disposed of all along the floor in careless heaps to be swept up at another time; when the moment was far less important, when contact had been satisfied enough to hardly be a necessity in the hours ahead until work would no longer be of consequence for the remainder of the day._

_The young Redfield, whose vest now lay in the remnants of items that used to occupy the space his ass had by now settled itself into, tilted his neck in a backward angle, head dipped between his shoulder blades to leave the span of his throat exposed. Thin lips did not deny his flesh its desired ravishing, latching on and suckling possessively, marking him low where no eyes could see._

_Lean legs parted open, paving the way for powerful hips to nudge against his own, inciting a mewl from the brunet. Slender fingers reached between them to unzip the layers that parted flesh from flesh. The Captain, still fully clothed much unlike Chris, unsheathed his throbbing length from its confines where the head immediately settled itself against the already slick pucker. It twitched hungrily, and with a smooth push of his hips, the tip slide right in through the caving sphincter._

_The young marksman's hands scrambled behind him, seeking out a better purchase as the muscles in his arms nearly collapsed and spilled his full weight back onto the desk. His fingers curled at the edges of the surface, keeping himself lifted upward with an open mouth that soon found itself claimed by another. He groaned into the oral cavity that devoured his own and muffled the sound, just as the prodding cock that breached him slipped itself further inside his eager fuck chasm in a rhythm that had Chris whimpering like a pleading pup._

_Chris bracketed the older man between his thighs, legs tangled at his back where ankles intertwined and tensed, closing in around the blond in hopes of drawing him closer. He needed everything that Wesker could give - he was drawn to it, more than any moth ever was to flame. His body screamed with a craving only the older man could sate, and Wesker never held back._

Chris hissed as a hand lifted to his forehead as though its presence could will away the memory. _No. Damn it, no!_ His thoughts screamed to him in warning. So often did they get lost and stumble, so often did the past become the present as faces and images filtered themselves through his mind's eye like his own personal theater he wanted nothing more than to burn down._  
_

Bury the past. Bury the lost.

If only it were so easy.

Chris still felt eyes on him, burning holes into his flesh and flaying him alive - cracking him open, tearing him apart until he melted into ash that had the sole purpose of being swept up and away. He'd become too weak, too vulnerable. The monster that had fought so much, tried so hard to kill, to conquer, to destroy the world that Chris had struggled for so long to protect; he was there, inches away in his own living room. Yet the brunet had lost his will to stand up, to fight for some semblance of order, of _peace_, when all that was ever offered to him was chaos.

People had the nerve to call him a hero, once.

Now, there were no more heroics left in his bloodstream. No will to keep going against the odds that only ever seemed impossible. There was nothing left but the _absence_ of hope; the one weapon he'd previously carried so proudly throughout his career.

On an impulse, Chris chanced a glance toward his side. The silence was unwavering between them, and the god-awful _stare_ that haunted him for years never averted itself, no doubt with the _intention_ of making him squirm. His gaze dropped lower, scaling at first over features he'd known so well and all across the ever present leather right down to his gloved fingertips that shielded away long digits and surprisingly soft flesh. It'd been some time since Chris had seen them; not since they were used _on_ him, _in_ him. Not _against_.

When they were a different weapon, not used for pain, but something else entirely.

_Skilled were the palms that pressed at his skin, brushing over all the right places that made him buck and squirm. Chris had become a well-traced map under the fingers that knowingly swept over each sensitive spot like a musician to a well tuned instrument until he shook and begged. "More," The brunet breathed just as they had slipped inside, twisting against his tightening sphincter that threatened to swallow them whole._

_A quiet hum emanated from behind where he lay, "You'll have to specify, Christopher." The young marksman groaned in response; the way his name fell so perfectly from those lips in the darkness where sound and touch had become so much more sent an erotic thrill throughout his system._

_The brunet grasped fistfuls of the sheets beneath him and clung to them as though they were a lifeline, the only thing keeping him sane as his body was reduced to mush. "I need- I need more," He gasped again, brain struggling to form the proper words. The fingers inside gave a cruel jerk, and a rather unmanly squeak slipped from his throat as his hips thrust themselves into the mattress below. "More- Just **more**."_

_The blond tsked, "Words, Christopher. Consider them a requirement."_

_His face now buried into his pillow, Chris let free a muffled whine at his position, held down and teased so thoroughly by hands that were too skilled for their own good. "Fingers," He rasped, "Want to be... To be full." It was all the scrambled egg that was the only remnant of his brain had managed to come up with. He wasn't even sure whether or not it was fully coherent, as desire fueled his senses more than any one word.  
_

_Chris could have wept when another finger slipped into his stretching anal cavity, pressing more thoroughly at his walls now with every thrust of the hand. Chris shuddered and groaned, eyes fluttered shut as he burrowed his face even deeper into the pillow._

_Chris almost missed the next words from Wesker, who half-feigned ignorance to further his frustration. "...I suppose your body **is** offering enough indication that this is more to your satisfaction." The fingers expanded, pushing against his inner most flesh, causing ripples of pleasure to dance under the marksman's skin._

_"Yes!" The brunet cried into the pillow as he tried to push himself back against the invading digits, only to find himself reminded that Wesker's other arm, which had only become more forceful in keeping his movements still, held him down tight. Chris whimpered, torn between the lovely sensation of being more full, and the ongoing torture of having his orgasm kept just out of his reach. "**Fuck**," He whined as his body tensed around the fingers._

_Wesker's hand pushed harder, burrowing knuckle deep into the heated orifice. "Or perhaps it's more friction you prefer?" His digits curled, and skilled tips brushed over something inside that had the brunet **screaming** his name._

Chris swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and found himself hurriedly turning away, but not before he caught the reemerging smirk over the blond's features. Although Wesker had no way of knowing what ran through his mind, something must have shown over his own countenance in the subtlest hint.

Damn the tyrant, his deceptive nature, and those fucking hands; hands that gave him pleasure, hands that gave him comfort - above all, hands that _saved his life._

_"This... This really hurts," The marksman admitted lamely as he clutched his side, where trails of blood ran rampant, pouring through his fingers. The blond was crouched beside him on the cold floor with digits that hovered themselves over his own._

_Damn his own stupidity - Chris had been off duty at the time, but the moment he'd caught word of a suspect being in the area, instead of taking the time to properly suit himself back into the standard protective vest, he'd charged in like some gung-ho hothead and took a bullet for it. Chris had been fortunate enough to take the guy down with him before he could get away - or worse, finish the job - but that did very little to stop the flow of blood from his side. Thankfully, some of the other S.T.A.R.S. members had already been on their way._

_Wesker had found him like that - crumpled to the floor with his gun now left untouched inches away from his form. He'd come to his side in an instant the moment it was obvious that the room had been cleared. Thin lips were tight to one another, the words of scorn over the marksman's stupidity remained unsaid between them, but the air was no less accusing._

_Chris grunted, settling his gaze on the older man and not on the wetness between his fingers. He tried to ignore it, to block it out and focus more on the hands above his own instead of what was under them. He didn't need to see the red, didn't want to check just how bad it was when the pain was constant, screaming at him for the wound to be treated._

_"Wasn't s'pose to play out like this." The brunet mumbled before licking at his dried lips._

_"Then let it be a lesson for the next time," The blond replied with no hesitation and a crease in his brow. Chris didn't like that look, even as Wesker tore scraps from the marksman's shirt and used them in an attempt to still the bleeding._

_For a moment, Chris wasn't sure there would be a next time._

_The Captain seemed intent on proving otherwise._

There had been so many chances. Chris had been much too careless on numerous occasions, especially during his time in S.T.A.R.S. where it wouldn't have taken much for the tyrant to have simply let him die and played it off as an accident. No one would have thought twice about it. If Chris didn't already know better, a small part of him might have maintained some sort of false hope that, perhaps, there was a real reason behind it all, hidden away under mountains of lies.

The brunet sighed and let a hand pass through his hair, brushing some of the short strands into tiny spikes. Chris almost preferred drowning in his own sorrow as opposed to being reminded of the past he shared with the man still sitting such a small distance from his side. It was disconcerting.

But enough was enough, and the silence had gone on for far too long. Too much thinking, too much guessing, and not nearly enough answers. Chris needed to know. Brown eyes sought out tinted shades, and this time his gaze held firm and unwavering. "What do you really want from me?"

All it took was a single word for the world to collapse over his shoulders.

"Everything."


End file.
